The Abyss One Layer at a Time
by millenium-writer
Summary: The lines between good and evil are broader than most mortals think. Just because an act seems evil does not make it so. Dagon Pent is set on delving as deeply between the lines as he can. Not for good. Not for evil. Not for any cause. But because he can.


Dagon Pent stared upward as a swarm of winged beasts massed above him. Watching the cluster of bat-like demons work themselves up into a frenzy, he calmly shouldered Ebonheart, and waited for them to attack.

While he waited, he pondered what more he could do to make Ebonheart more powerful.

Ebonheart was a sword, long as a tall man's arm, and thick as it was wide. This gave it's cross section an uncommon, though not unheard of, diamond shape. The blade was forged out of adamantine, black and glossy like the night's sky, tiny flecks of gold glimmering like stars within it's dark depths.

Around Dagon lay dozens of broken corpses, demons like the ilk that circled overhead.

He had cast a considerable amount of magical energy into the sword, mystically honing the edge razor fine. It had taken him three weeks and as many trips to this particular layer of the Abyss, just to gather enough blood requiered for the most recent spell he had cast into the sword.

He had labored for days to temper the blade in the demon's mingled bloods, but the cost and effort had been worth it. Now Ebonheart hummed softly, a low, sweet tone that only his ears could hear, warning him when demons drew near. Adamantine was known for it's incredible strength, and ability to hold an edge once forged. However, when bathed in treated blood, and bound with the proper ritual...

A pair of the demons overhead wheeled, and dove towards him. Claws outstreched, wings furled as they flung themselves down, down, to strike at the lone human on the ruined earth that covered the layer.

Swinging Ebonheart one-handed from his shoulder, the black blade sliced neatly through the chest of the first demon, the second spreading it's wings in a desperate attempt to avoid the same fate. Gripping the hilt with both hands, Dagon lept, and cleft the second demon in half with a single stroke.

The remaining demons screeched and broke ranks, scatting to all corners of the Abyssal layer. Watching for a few minutes, Dagon waited to see if the demons would regroup and try for another attack. When it became clear that they would not return, he sighed and shouldered his sword once more.

Deep purple ichor decorated his inky black armor, forged from the same vein of adamantine as Ebonheart was. It had taken him several years to gather up enough funds to pay for the forging of the two, and his coffers were now decidedly lacking. Slaying his rival, Traxus, and sacking his estate, had done wonders to furthering Dagon's goal.

Sadly, with Traxus dead, he had been lacking both a rival, and a goal.

After weeks of drifting from job to job, taking any task as a mercenary should, it had come to him; Traxus' mad dream was to become lord of the Abyss. What better way to taunt the man's immortal soul, to not only steal his dream, but realize it too?

Naturally, Traxus' goal was that of a feverish madman. He had no magical potential, and he was lacking in every single area that involved wit or brain. He had been a successful raider, that much was in his favor.

It would forever puzzle Dagon as to where Traxus got the idea to hire men to ransack the land for him, wait until a bounty was posted, then slaughter his own men and claim the rewards. _That_ was the reason he had hated the man so. Everytime he had tried to claim a bounty, there was Traxus, one step ahead of him, somehow.

Dagon didn't think himself an evil man, but then, how many men thought that they were evil? So it had been with no small amount of delight when he hacked open Traxus' chest, pinned the would-be warlord to the ground, and watched his heart slowly stop beating. He had yet to feel a single shred of regret for that action, but then, the man had had it coming to him.

Clasping the small glass stone he wore about his neck, he gave a sharp tug, snapping the thin cord that had held it. Holding the roughly cut stone to his eye, he noted that the hairline cracks throughout the clear glass were beginning to join together, forming a weblike pattern. His time upon the layer was running out, at most he had another hour before the stone shattered.

Squeezing his hand into a fist, the glass shattered between his armored fingers. The landscape dipped, turned and twisted, warping until everything blended together in a blur. With a sudden snap, he was standing in the small room he kept barred and hidden behind a tapestry, in his home back on the Prime Material plane. "Home again."

-

Several hours later, Dagon eased the hidden door shut, brushing the tapestry that covered the door back into place. Cleaning Ebonheart and his armor had taken more time than he had planned, since he took pains to collect as much of the demon's remains as he could.

Sweeping his pale blonde hair back behind his ears, he moved to the wardrobe in the corner of his chambers, tugging the doors open. "What to wear, what to wear?" Simple linen breeches and a matching tunic later, Dagon plucked a green vest from a hook, and shut the wardrobe once more.

A faint tinkling noise drifted through the home.

Seconds later, there came knocking, and someone calling out. Sighing, Dagon strode towards the front of his home, plucking a short dowel a few inches long from one of his book shelves. Holding the small bit of wood concealed in his palm, he pulled open his door, after unfastening the latch. "Yes?"

"Master Pent! Th-"

"That's _Mister_ Pent. Not master." Casually slipping his hand into his vest pocket, he let the bit of wood rest at it's bottom. "I've told you before, I'm not your master."

"Yes, yes. A thousand pardons Mister Pent, but-"

"But nothing Cedric." Frowning, Dagon began shutting the door. "I don't care what it is, you know the rule; you, or anyone else calls me master, and I shut this door."

"But another Cyst has appeared!"

The door was nearly shut when it stopped moving. "Cedric."

A face thrust itself against the scant opening between the door and it's frame. "Yes Mister Pent?" A bright blue eye twinkled hopefully.

"Your hand is in the way. Move it." The door jiggled against Cedric's fingers, stuck in the door's way to prevent it from closing.

"But Mister Pent!"

A long sigh hissed out from between Dagon's lips. "Fine." The door swung open, and Dagon turned his back. "Come in and tell me about it while I fetch my sword."

-

"There. In the middle of the cornfield." Cedric pointed, a somewhat grand gesture for such a slender youth.

"I have eyes Cedric."

"Yes sir, sorry sir."

"Cedric."

"Yes sir?"

"Do I need to break that lute over your head?"

"Sorry s- sorry Mister Pent."

Dagon hissed out another long sigh.

Cedric was a Bard in good standing, gifted with anything involving strings, clever enough with a blade, and had a singing voice like an Angel. True, he preferred to sing songs that made it sound like the Angel had it's wings torn off years ago...

Cedric was also training under Knight Thomas, Captain of the Watch of Krell village, Paladin of the Brass Eye, member of the Order of the Silver Chalice, under the Church of Pelor.

Simply thinking of Thomas' many titles gave Dagon a headache.

"Well?" Cedric was short and slender, with willowy brown hair, and bright blue eyes. He didn't have his armor with him, apparently deciding he hadn't the time to buckle it all on, with his rush to fetch Dagon. He was, however, wearing his tabard emblazoned with a sun-face of Pelor, stiched with bright yellow thread.

"Well what?" Dagon shifted in place.

"Aren't you going to charge in there?" Cedric reached over his shoulder for his shield, lashed to his back. "Rend them to bits? Hew fouls limbs from-"

"Cedric?"

"Yes?" The young Paladin-to-be had already drawn his sword from his hip, and was probably halfway done composing a song of the deeds he was about to perform.

"Shut up."

"Oh." Drawing his shield from over his shoulder, Cedric carefully buckled it to his forearm. Most commonly known as a kite shield, it prevented a swordsman from using both hands on his blade. It made up for the shortcoming by being wide enough to be useful, though light enough to keep from throwing a man off his balance when he swung his weapon.

Dagon frowned. He could clearly see the top of the Cyst from where he stood. "It's a big one." The top of the Cyst jutted over the rows of corn, faint lines and chunks of purple ore gleaming against the main bulk of inky black stone.

"Yes. Sir Thomas is out in the Delhold's pumpkin patch, fighting off the Cyst-spawn there." Cedric examined the length of his blade, frowning at a small chip in it's edge. "Bugger. He's also mobilized the Watch to guard the town from any of the spawn that get past him."

"More than one Cyst burst?"

"Four in total apeared, counting this one. One was lanced just outside the east wall." Cedric swung his sword a few times, testing it's balance. "The second was harvested just as it appeared." Glancing over at Dagon, Cedric rested the flat of his blade over his shoulder, something he had picked up from watching the man for weeks now. "We're the only ones left to handle the Cyst." A sly smile twisted the youth's lips. "And I know how much you want your scrounge rights on a large Cyst."

"Cedric..." Dagon growled out the name, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"I haven't told anyone about your aims. Your secret is safe with me." Smiling still, Cedric turned to look over the field of corn as it swayed and sighed in the breeze.

"What about your Knightly vows?"

"The way I see it, as long as you don't seek to harm anyone, these Cysts aren't your fault." Frowning, the youth chewed on his lip, thinking. "It's a natural welling of magical energy, spilling over from one plane to another. Magic itself cares not for evil or good, it simply is." Licking his lips, Cedric glanced at Dagon for a moment. "Like you."

Keeping his expression neutral, Dagon returned the look.

"That's what the Church has to say about magic. _We_ shape and form it, according to our wills. We make it good, or evil. So long as we seperate the taint from the Cysts, there is no problem in using the things recovered from within to further our cause."

Dagon said nothing.

"Your guess was right, Cysts are a mirror for the land and those living on it." Cedric shifted from foot to foot, eager to go. "A messenger arrived yesterday, late in the night. Cysts are also springing up in the Tainted Waste." He paused for a moment, to see if the older man would rise to the bait. As expected, he didn't. "They glow with a radiant yellow light, and have no taint at all."

"That's enough talk for now Cedric." Dagon strode forward, Silverheart tinging faintly against his shoulder guard. Unlike Ebonheart, this sword was very wide and flat, making an entirely different fighting style required. Like it's twin, Silverheart was aptly named, it's surface a bright, gleaming silver. Since it was forged from Mythril, it was very strong and light, making it easier to handle an oversized blade.

Cerdic marched alongside Dagon in silence for a few dozen paces. "What form do you think the Taint will become this time?" Tiling his head back, he looked up at the cloud-shot blue sky. "Last time it was a huge spider. Before that, a Lizard-man. Before that, a Hippogriff."

"A twelve foot tall dog, with hands where it's paws should be."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because that's what's about to attack us."

"Oh." Brandishing his sword, Cedric half-raised his shield into a guard position. "That's disturbing."

"Mmhmm."


End file.
